SUPERNATURAL SMUT

London Bridge Has Fallen Down

Rating:ExplicitArchive

Warnings:Graphic Depictions Of ViolenceRape/Non-Con

Category:M/M

Fandom: Supernatural

Relationship: Crowley/Dean

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The Winchesters are a package deal, you don't get one without the other. They are a team, grown so closely together from birth and trained so thoroughly that they not only understand how one another thinks, they know each others instincts. They know when to dodge, when to duck and when to retreat - however rare those moments may be. Angels and demons, even the things that go bump in the night have all seen them do it, the smooth, synchronous dance they perform in battle comes almost without concern - without thought - and it is a wondrous thing to watch.

Like yin and yang, tick and tock, there is also a Sam and Dean.

So it begs the question: what would happen if the finely oiled machine that were the Winchester brothers suddenly stuttered and stalled? What would it look like if half of the whole became sick or damaged somehow? Perhaps one had a few immobilizing memories of a pit and Lucifer spill out of a broken mental wall or two, as the many whispers had said. Surely there would be a time of sequestering, of recovery and healing before they turned their brave faces to the fight again.

But what about the delicious, vulnerable space between the stumble and the return? An interesting conundrum to be sure.

It's a question that needs serious thought and contemplation on Crowley's part. He needs to think about what can be gained from such a fortuitous, albeit short window of opportunity. What could one possibly want when one was king and could have it all? But there is always something to want, isn't there? Things to crave for. To covet.

And Crowley always did like beautiful things.

Contemplation turns to strategy, then patience and timing. Finally, it requires action. And one little gift from a good succubus friend.

It was almost too easy nabbing Dean. But that's what happens when a string is pulled too taut and nerves run too high. Mistakes tend to follow in their wake. Crowley is still careful, though. He hires men to do the kidnapping so there is no scent of sulfur to follow, no trail of monsters to track. He doesn't bring him down to the depths of his kingdom right away. Instead, he keeps the hunter in a daze and unaware of his surroundings, a hood for his eyes and a rope for his hands and feet. Only when he's sure the trail he's made is so ornate and confusing that even the best of trackers would become hopelessly lost does he bring is trophy back to his haven.

The little pill is crushed, mixed with food and drink that Crowley gives him only when he knows the need for it will outweigh any concern of the contents.

Dean has always been beautiful. His eyes are a verdant green, lips full and lush. He has strong, wide shoulders, a trim waist, and the bow of his legs are irresistible, made for someone to be between them. When the pill takes hold his cheeks flush, then his eyes glaze, and Crowley watches delightfully as Dean flits from emotion to emotion: want, guilt, self recrimination, anger, desperation, and finally an all encompassing need to touch, feel and taste.

Then the fun really begins.

Crowley lays eyes on Dean when he opens the door to his chamber. The hunter is a sprawled, wanton thing lying on the bed. His hair is damp with sweat, eyes a bare hint of green with oh, so many promises held in the wide black of his pupils. His hand is wrapped around his cock, moving tight and fast as he jacks himself.